Every so often, I offer up an explanation of something that is dear to my heart… Creative Interchange. It is both an explanation of the way things are as well as offering a practical way to proceed in the everyday actions of life. I share this concept in that I think it is timely as to where we are as a country, as well as being hopeful that it might make a difference.

Creative Interchange was introduced by a process theologian, Henry Nelson Wieman, who lived through both World Wars, the atom bomb, the domesticated Fifties, the cultural shift of the 60’s, dying in 1975, He taught at some of the premier schools of his time, his task was reconciling the importance of faith while valuing the insights of science, one of the basic questions that drove the development of my thinking. In retrospect, his thinking was prescient as to our current struggles, perhaps prophetic, and worthy of study as to a way forward through the fog.

Wieman believed that Creation was embedded with the gift and risk of relationality, that is, we are all connected with one another essentially. The gift is that we have the capacity to expand our knowing of the world by attending to the insights and experiences of the others that we encounter. The risk is that this is not an automatic process, in fact, it is difficult due to our propensity to protect ourselves.

He offered up a process called Creative Interchange that makes this interaction productive. I am, in the next few paragraphs, going to describe the process in my signature “down and dirty” way. For a more extensive, and better, description, I refer you to my colleague, Charlie Palmgren’s book, Ascent of the Eagle, available through Amazon.

Creative Interchange occurs between people in an event of intercommunication and is a four-fold process that can occur sequentially, but not necessarily. It has to do with being aware of one’s existence in the world, 1) authentically sharing that awareness with an “other” (another human being), 2) listening with humble appreciation to the other’s awareness which is also authentically shared, 3) engaging in a process of integrating the differences between the two perspectives, and then 4) integrating the varying perspectives into richer view of the reality that we share, thus deepening our common experience. Rather than the typical negotiation style, where each side is forced to give up part of their agenda or perspective, the creative part is the transforming synthesis which moves us beyond a mere common ground to a shared connection to a higher ground of connection.

This four-step process may sound simple, but it demands the processing skills of our minds. both the left hemisphere of our brain which deals in logic and analytics, as well as the right hemisphere which opens us to our intuition and connective creativity. Unfortunately, our current emphasis and learning has tended to focus on the left side, making us prone to view things in a transactional binary game of win-lose. In our current bifurcated world, striven by politics and cultural wars, we are in desperate need of a new way of interacting. Fortunately, according to Wieman, we are wired from birth with the capacity to think creatively. Our socialization by parents and mainly by schools tend to drive that creative self out of us as we “learn” to survive by various coping skills that “earn” us a sense of worth. We come to see ourselves with value that is imported from outside of us, by what we do, how we accumulate, by our social status. That creative self is still within each of us and with some intentional practice, we can awaken that nascent capacity.

Over the next few weeks, I will revisit that four-fold process in greater detail, looking at some specific tactics that can help us to make this work for our interactions with others. But before we do that, I think that it is crucial to name a value that is primary to the dynamic of the process itself. It is the presupposition of the inherent worth of all people.

Everyone, including yourself, has inherent value and worth. Pause, if you will, and reflect on that assertion: you have inherent worth. That comes with the territory of being a human being. It’s a part of “the lay of the land”. Each person has a unique viewpoint that can enhance, enrich, enlarge our own perspective as to what is going on in the world that we share. With this starting point, our mindset on life is transformed. Every person becomes an opportunity to discover something that we had not seen before, contributing to our view of reality. With this in mind and heart, our approach to encounters with others begins to lean into the engagement with hopeful anticipation and expectation rather than fear and anxiety. This existential recognition of the “other” as valuable is a game-changer.

Contrast this view of seeing others as being of inherent worth with a mindset that has seems to pervade our culture recently. There is a resident discounting of value, even a contempt for those that we encounter as having a different perspective than our own. In a binary, competitive world, those that disagree with us or see things differently are discounted at best, written off, or attacked out of fear. This kind of engagement gets us nowhere as evidenced in our current political morass. If you have been captured by the current cultural warfare, you may not even be aware of your tendency to hold the “other” in contempt. Fortunately, Creative Interchange can offer a strategy for addressing this situation, and it begins with the recognition of each person’s value as a fellow human being, which is a definitive noun, a person, that supersedes any adjective or adverb.

Let me share a spiritual exercise that I developed when I was doing my graduate work that practically addresses this issue. During breaks between semesters, namely Christmas season and summers, I worked in downtown Atlanta at a historic business, Royal Pipe and Cigar. Located in Five Points, this tobacco shop catered to the attorneys and business folk in this bustling heart of the city. To get to work, I would take the mass transit train, MARTA, from my suburban enclave to downtown. It was a quick twenty-minute ride, a time that seemed to be empty for me after I had grown used to the outside passing views. And so, I developed a practice to fill those twenty minutes.

As I sat on the bus seat, I would focus on the incoming passengers, who came from all walks of life, all ethnicities, all economic conditions, not to mention taste in clothing. As I would focus on each one entering the MARTA train through the sliding doorway, I would repeat a mantra that was a part of my religious tradition: “Our Father”. That, of course, is the opening phrase of the Lord’s Prayer, which, according to Scripture, Jesus taught to his followers. I had learned this prayer early on as a South of God child, but it’s implication and teaching now seemed fresh. What I was learning, training, recovering was the childlike insight as to our deep connection to one another. “Our Father” literally re-minded me that I share this Creation with other creatures. I was tending to, aware of, in a new way, this wonderful menagerie of persons that were on parade right in front of me, reawakening the creative self that had been buried beneath categories and imposed valuations. I was essentially connected to each person entering this vehicle that we shared. I was being transformed in this rather ordinary event known as a bus ride. And it felt like a gift from out of nowhere, when in fact it was emanating from my deepest core of being.

When we begin to frame our encounters with other people as opportunities to learn and be enriched, it transforms our interactions, opening us to a more collaborative style than merely going into a protective, defensive mode. Without this “starting point” of valuing the “other”, the process is difficult to advance. Do you believe that you have value and worth by your very being? And if so, are you able to recognize the inherent worth and value of other human beings that share this time and space? This two-fold affirmation is the “stuff” that drives the catalytic chemistry that powers the transformation from defensive games to creative possibility.

Next week, I will look specifically at the initial phase of this process of Henry Nelson Wieman known as Creative Interchange. In the meantime, try on my mantra of “Our Father” when you find yourself in moments of social interaction. Thankfully, it is not limited to a MARTA train from Decatur to Five Points. Rather, it is possible at all times. Image the person that you are speaking with as a person of worth, having valuable insights into the world that you are seeking to understand. Because she/he has value, you might find yourself leaning into the conversation with an appreciative ear and with uncommon interest in what the “other” is saying. See if it makes a difference in your conversations. Again, next week, I will offer some other tactics to assist us in our Creative Interchange.

I gave myself four days of presence at the 2024 Masters golf tournament. I should really use the word “granted” instead “gave” which gets at the largesse of the gift as if granted by a genie.

In the past, I was able to be on the grounds in Augusta. With mobility issues, (upward and bodily) I have not been able to go in the last few years. But CBS and the Golf Channel afforded me actually better viewing, though I miss the ambiance of Augusta National, the roar of the gallery, the smell of the flora, and the taste of pimento cheese sandwiches.

I began going when I was a young boy with my dad who shared his love of the game early. It was magical to be on the scene, somewhat like being on a movie set. The grounds, the trees, the azaleas, the green grass perfectly manicured were impressive, even to a child. Later, as a teenager, I would fly down for the day with my Delta friend, Doug Dunn, landing in a bevy of private planes, notably Arnold Palmer’s Lear jet. And we were on our own, deciding how to spend our time in this fairyland of golf.

I remember that early on, the players parked right near the clubhouse and practice area. They would drive down Magnolia Lane, park their courtesy Cadillacs, unload their clubs, and head to the locker room. For me, that was “prime time” to get autographs from these legends of golf. Not only Arnie, Gary, and Jack, but Sam Snead, Byron Nelson and Gene Sarazen who showed up every Spring. It was amazing to actually see these heroes of mine in the flesh.

The practice range in those days was right in front of the clubhouse. Players would hit shots while the local caddies would shag the balls as they descended with their appropriately named “shag bag”. When I got my first shag bag of my own with beat-up Titleists and sparkling white rocks known as Trophy balls, I knew that I had arrived. I was a golfer.

In those days, all players had to use the local caddies, who had invaluable knowledge of the course and particularly of the vexing tilt-a-whirl greens. These caddies brought color to the event that I miss, most staying with the same player throughout his years playing at the Masters. Now, players use their own caddies who are a part of their professional entourage. It’s one of the few traditions that Augusta National has let go, and one that I miss. When I’ve have been able to play at Augusta, the caddies were unbelievable in terms of local knowledge and wisdom, not to mention the color of their personalities.

Also, there was a practice green where people could practice their shots from the sand trap. One memory that is laser-etched in my memory was watching Arnold Palmer practicing his sand shot. He dropped several balls in the sand trap, proceeded to line up his shot, make a sharply descending blow behind the ball, blasting said ball onto the green toward the hole, marked by a pin. On this occasion, as an early teen, I was focusing on his technique, trying to learn by obseervation. Each time, the ball flew out of the trap, but came up about three feet short, something a weekend golfer would kill for. After many tries with the same result, the gallery and I watched the inimitable Arnie climb out of the trap and go to his golf bag, He dug inside of one of the cavernous side pockets and pulled out a package that contained a new leather grip. He quickly took the old grip off using a utility knife, applied some tape and glue, rewrapped the sand wedge with a new grip. His dad was a club golf pro so he knew the drill. He then descended into the trap, lined up his shot, took his swing, hitting the shot three feet short of the pin as the balll rolled forward into the hole. The gallery erupted with cheers, and Arnie, the ultimate entertainer turned to us and said, “That old grip just didn’t feel quite right.” and we nodded in agreement with the original King of the Masters. I was able to recount the story to Mr. Palmer years later, and he just grinned that famous world-winning grin.

The practice area was a world in and of itself. I could have spent my entire day there but the course calls. When you walk the eighteen holes of Augusta, you sense that you are in the Cathedral of golf, built by it’s bishop, Bobby Jones. Originally a plant and tree nursery, Bobby Jones bought the land and began to design and build this Olympus of the golf gods, opening the club for play in 1932. The course was designed by Jones and Alister MacKenzie. In 1934, the first Masters tournamennt was held. It’s worth noting that Jones was originally opposesd to the name “Masters” for obvious reasons. Clifford Roberts, the other founder of the club, prevailed and the Masters is viewed as one of the four major championships in the world of golf.

The week at the Masters began with practice rounds on Monday and Tuesday. The access to players is pretty loose, and the groupings of players more random. I was hit by a practice ball on the bounce by Rory McIlroy as he tried to hit the green in two on the par 5 fifteenth hole. It was at one of his first Masters and he looked rather boyish as he apologized to me. And there’s the sporty “skip the ball across the pond” challenge on the par 3 #16, as the crowd cheers and moans as each golfer gives it his best college try. Every so often, someone holes out, and the place goes nuts. It feels a bit circus-like as these golf gladiators are preparing for battle and trying to assuage their nerves.

Wednesday is unique with an abbreviated practice time in the morning, followed by the Par 3 competition. There are nine holes within the property that are short par threes. This is the day for the golfers to bring out their wives and kids to serve as caddies. There is a festive mood and the kids become the stars of the show. But the specter of the coming competition is looming.

Thursday begins the actual competition, with the legends of golf beginning the play by teeing off on hole #1. For years, it was Arnold Palmer, Gary Player, and Jack Nicklaus. This year, with Arnie no longer bodily present, Tom Watson filled in. The tradition of the Masters is captured in this connection with the heritage of Bobby Jones’ vision. After the three hit their drives, the Chairman of Augusta National declares loudly that this particular year of the Masters has begun.

The tournament consists of four rounds played on Thursday ending on Sunday. Thursday and Friday always seem a bit chaotic as new players are finding their way, while the old guys are reminiscing and enjoing the stroll through the magnolias. The eighty-nine golfers are vying to “make the cut”, which includes the top fifty players, including those that are tied. Therefore, no one knows what “the cut line” will be as it is determined by the play of the field, and often “moves” throughout the day on Friday. This was particularly true this year with the high winds that rocketed through the stately hardwoods of Augusta National. Those who don’t “make the cut” are headed home, hoping and praying for another chance in the proverbial “next year”.

Saturday is called “moving day” as golfers typically will shoot some low scores, advancing themselves in the rankings, while others find trouble, mental lapses due to nerves, and their movement is downward. The pressure is starting to build, and some are able to step up their game while others fold.

It is said that the Masters begins on the back nine holes on Sunday. The holes on the back nine are particularly treacherous with water hazards lurking to grab an errant shot. But they are also alluring as two reachable par 5’s give a seductive risk/reward ratio, tempting the player to “go for it.” One player in this year’s tournament described himself as “greedy”, trying to take on too many risks which cost him dearly. Still other players who take the risk, gamble, and succeed are hailed as heroes. Veterans of past Masters know when to “go” and when to play safe. One player noted that the key to the back nine is to know “where to miss” so that you have a chance to recover.

This is why I think golf has such a wide appeal as it mimics life, as we must discern how to live well and smart, and the hard reality of having to play the ball as it lies, that is, where you hit it. The bad breaks happen, like Max Homa’s shot on the par 3 twelvth, took a bad hop back into the bushes and may have cost him the tournament. After the round, he responded to his feelings, “It’s not fair.”. Just like life, bad hops happen. But, lucky bounces do as well. Playing through the vicissitudes of golf and life are just part of the game. I feel fortunate to have received some life training in the game of golf, competitively and casually. Hard works pays off. Keep your concentration. Don’t fixate on a bad shot. Recovery is part of the game. Center. Breathe. Enjoy. And Walter Hagen’s quote, “Don’t forget to smell the flowers!”.

This year’s Masters experience was a gift that I gave to myself. I watched the previews on the Golf Channel. I watched the live golf on ESPN on Thursday and Friday, and CBS on Saturday and Sunday. Jim Nantz, Trevor Immelman, with on-course Dottie Pepper gave the usual welll-tuned commentary. And of course, the inimitable Vern Lunquist on #16 completed his storied career of making just the right calls. It was not disappointing. I can’t wait for next year as I remember watching the Masters with my dad, taking my son and daughter, sharing such special moments with friends at this holy site. Can someone get me a pimento cheese sandwich, please?

I was halfway through writing my new article on Creative Interchange when an invasive text on my phone made me stop in my tracks. I got the news that my friend, Harrison Owen died. He was one of my minion of great teachers in my world that changed the way I thought and felt about life. It seemed to be meet, right, and my bounden duty (an old Anglican mantra) to interrupt my writing to reflect upon his influence on me, so I put my current article aside.

Harrison was 89 years of age when he died, living in the town of Camden, Maine, just across Penobscot Bay from my beloved vacation spot of Stonington, an honest-to-God lobster village. Camden is the famous port for schooners, and they often sail straightway to Stonington for fresh lobsters. Harrison had an adventurous soul that I admired and, in fact, must admit that I was a bit jealous of his sense of freedom.

I had first met Harrison in Washington, D.C, which had been his home base for years. After being “hipped” to his new technique of doing meetings, I flew in to meet him at a restaurant on Pennsylvania Ave.. We sat outside at a street cafe and shared a drink. It was a transformational encounter for me, and the beginning of our long relationship.

I discovered him through my colleague, Mike Murray, who had helped me design a leadership development model for community leaders in East Texas. Pew Charitable Trust was sponsoring our efforts, providing me with funding to bring in some of the top talents in the leadership world, with Mike himself being one of them. Mike introduced me to Owen’s breakthrough format for gathering people in community and using a process to generate Spirit to get things done. It was called Open Space Technology.

Let me tell you briefly about Harrison. He was born in Evanston, Illinois but grew up in Philadelphia. After graduating from Williams College, he attended the Episcopal Virginia Theological Seminary and was ordained a priest in 1961. That “priest” link drew us together initially and became a fertile field of dialogue in that first meeting and continued throughout our relationship. He never served as a Rector of a parish, but took his priesthood seriously as he moved through a variety of the incarnations of his career.

He became highly involved in the Civil Rights movement while doing graduate work at Vanderbilt in 1965. He wound up working for the Peace Corps, stationed in Liberia where he was the Associate Director in the capital city. In 1970, he returned to Washington, D.C. working with a variety of projects in healthcare. Eventually, he was associated with the Carter administration, and upon its demise, started his own company trying to provide leadership in the field of Organizational Development that he framed as “organizational transformation”.

Upon meeting at that bar in D.C., Harrison told me an amazinng story, the seminal narrative for the birth of Open Space. He had been hired to put together a conference with the brightest lights of a wide swath of disciplines. He assembled the best line-up, a “dream team” if you will, and asked them to put together “white papers” discussing the issues that faced their particular fields in order to share it in a dialogical way. The prep work for the conference was arduous, demanding a great deal of coordination, planning, and logistics. Harrison expressed it cleanly: I worked my ass off to get this off the ground!

When the conference met, it went on for ten days, with papers delivered, questions emerging, discussions ensuing, heady explorations of possibilities and potential synergy. At the end, an exhausted Harrison distributed an evaluation sheet to be responded to before one left the conference center. Like any good program coordinator, Harrison provided extensive ranking and evaluation of each seminar. And then, he asked the pregnant question: What was the most important part of the gathering?

The predominant answer was unexpected, even troubling. Actually, after all his planning and careful work, Harrison was furious with the answer that he received. The majority of people said that the best thing about the conference was the “coffee breaks”! That’s when the dialogue was non-programmed, unrestricted, and the fresh flow of ideas and connections was free to happen.

Harrison laughed as he told me this story, admitting that he went into a deep depression for a time, having invested a year of his life and energy into something that had such an ambiguous result. But after a time, a spark of genius came to his mind: How can I design a conference based on coffee breaks? From this crucible of creativity emerged Open Space Technology.

Open Space Technology provides a way of gathering people to unleash the creative power resident in persons. The format is simple. You gather a group around a framing question that brings you together. The number of people involved can vary. I have done Open Space with a staff of eight, with a board of fifteen, with a church of three hundred, with a diocese of one thousand, and with a city. The numbers change some of the detailed logistics but the process is the same. And as Harrison preached to me, “It always works!”. And along with Neil Diamond, I’m a believer.

Here’s the basic framework.

You begin by gathering the group in a single space, configured in a circle, the traditional way that a tribe gathers. You, as the facilitator and “holder of the space” make your way to the center of the circle. You give an overview as to how this process is going to proceed, reminding the participants of the framing question. You let them know that they will be invited to bring a topic that is crucial to them in answering the framing question. As the sponsor of this particular topic, they are agreeing to meet with whoever shows up at a specific meeting time that you choose and designate, soon to be determined by your selection of time and place on a communal matrix board. You need not be an expert on this particular topic, only one who has some energy around that issue. You ask them to write down their topic on a piece of newsprint. Once you as the facilitator complete your instructions, they are invited, one at a time, to come to the center, and share the topic with the larger group.

After sharing the topic, you, as the sponsor of a particular topic, will move to the aforementioned time/place matrix to select a time. You will then post your topic that is recorded on newsprint on the “community bulletin board” (aka a wall), and then return to the group. The large group, remaining in the circle, will continue to bring forward topics until the “popping” of ideas ceases. At that point, the facilitator reminds the group of the process and the principles of Open Space, and then, with fanfare “Opens the Space”.

The group then moves to the community bulletin board to look over the various topics and decide which groups they want to attend. They will be putting their names on the sheet to indicate their intention to attend. A great deal of energy is generated as this creative exchange happens, particularly when you have a large group.

After this selection period, the meeting in groups begins, generally in an hour and a half sessions. In each group, there is a “staff” scribe who records the comments and questions of the group on newsprint so that the group can agree or challenge the way the idea was captured. The original sponsor takes the lead in facilitating the group to make sure that no one person dominates the time and to draw out folks who may be on the periphery. At the end of each meeting, the scribe takes the newsprint notes to a pool of transcribers who will type up the notes. Overnight, these transcriptions are copied, providing each attendee a record of all that was discussed in all the meetings that took place that day. Sometimes these meetings take place over a day, and in larger gatherings, it can be three to five days. There is an amazing proliferation of ideas and options that are brought to the surface, particularly if the organization has been “strangled” by tightly controlling leaders.

Let me tell you of one meeting in particular that is a great example of the “release of a creative spirit” in an organization that has seemed moribund. This was a large Episcopal diocese that had experienced a top-down, command-control leadership style for some time, suffocating the breathing of fresh ideas and initiatives. To change the culture, the diocese sent personal invitations to every member (that’s right, EVERY)of the diocese to attend “the Gathering of the Diocese”. To our wonderful surprise and delight, over 1500 people showed up at the Gathering.

When I explained the Open Space process to the prior leadership team, they were quick to tell me that the design was flawed. They protested, “We need to deliver information to the people, not engage in some interpersonal chatter.” The senior member of the team was definitive, though he said he was trying to deliver his tough truth in a Christ-like manner, “You are doomed for failure from the start.”. All I could say was to repeat Harrison’s wisdom: Open Space never fails. At worst, it will reveal the state of our current culture.”. To say that I was secretly nervous about the upcoming two-day gathering would be an understatement but I was able to maintain my non-anxious presence despite warnings.

We met in a large outdoor tent on a field at a diocesan school. We followed the process as I have described it. The framing question was a broad one: What could we do to make our diocese “great”? I reminded them of Jesus’ connection of “great” with servanthood and love. After I finished my prelude, I made that pregnant pause, breathed deeply, and then said, “That’s what we will be doing together over the next two days…. There is no Plan B.” Nervous laughter was a good sign to me, and so I invited them to come forward with their topics and initiatives.

The reaction was quick. I later called Harrison to tell him how it went. Seriously, it was like an altar call at a Billy Graham crusade in the South. The people literally “streamed” to the center of the circle offering fresh ideas and imagining new avenues of service and opportunities for community. It was as if we had opened up a spillway at the bottom of a pent-up dam, releasing a flow of a creative spirit. But that was just the beginning, for as they began to interact with one another in these initiative groups, there was an energy generated that had been dormant. The Open Space process captured those ideas and prompts for all to see, and gave the new leadership team some direction as the diocese moved to a new model of collaboration.

So, my message in this brief article is that Open Space works. I’ve seen it work in many settings, most times delivering a quickening of the spirit and uptick in the organization. One time when I was delivering for a group of professors responsible for educating nurses, it clued the organization into some residual cultural issues that were slowing the development of a more team approach to healthcare in moving to a more collaborative model. That moment prompted the group to address this gap in the way they were training future nurses.

In one organization, the Open Space process identified a lack of clarity as to their vision and mission, allowing them to seriously address this paucity. And once with a group of Episcopal bishops, Open Space moved among the group to develop better ways of networking and coordinating. The bottom line is: Open Space works regardless, even as a diagnostic tool for the existing culture.

As I reflect on this process that my friend, Harrison developed, it’s good to remember our times together, playfully imagining how to better the life of organizations, even the church. I would meet with him any time I went to DC for an Episcopal meeting or to teach. I was able to bring him to my home turf of Tyler. We drove once together from Tyler to San Antonio for a meeting of an Organizational Development association, stopping along the way outside of Austin in Buda, Texas home of the Texas Hatters, where my friend, Manny Gammage, made him a cowboy hat to order. Manny designed and made all the hats for Lonesome Dove. Harrison was proud to wear his Texas hat to his presentation to the vaulted group of consultants. Such was the way of a true maverick. Not “all hat and no cow”, for Harrison was famous for riding that bucking bull of an onerous organization for the full eight seconds. I am reminded how my circuitous journey has afforded me rich associations with so many amazing women and men similar to Harrison.

Finally, as I am finishing up this article in tribute to my friend’s genius, I am aware of how his method is the embodiment of the process I was going to be originally writing about, Creative Interchange. Open Space provides a structure and process in which the Creative Interchange alchemy can take place. The authentic sharing, the empathetic listening to the “other” with humility, the space of interaction where synthesis of disparate perspectives, and the emergence of an expanded view of possibility… this is what actually occurs in Open Space. It is Creative Interchange.

What synchronicity for news of Harrison’s death to reach me as I was pounding out another article on Creative Interchange! And in the process of trying to describe phenomenologically the structure of the Open Space methodology, the linkage between the two is made apparent. Eureka! Creative Interchange at work.

It’s not an exaggeration to say that Neil Diamond kept me on the spiritual path that led to priesthood. Allow me to ‘splain, as my grandmother McBrayer would say.

In last week’s article, I mentioned my Trappist monk spiritual director who helped me to an appreciative way of embracing Easter. My vocational journey had many such influences that led me to discern my vocation to priesthood. I’ll always remember and cherish the quip delivered by my spiritual mentor, Carlyle Marney, who opined: The hot Georgia sun called many a man to the ministry! Selah.

Those of you who regularly read South of God have been exposed to those many influences that led me on this path. Key teachers, wise colleagues, chance encounters, off-the-cuff comments (one in particular that I remember from Cindy Martin), personal relationships… all conspired to lead me to make the decision to take on the role of priest. But Neil is special. I need to remember Neil, particularly whenever I find myself taking all this stuff too seriously.

It all began with Donnie Harwell.

I have talked in the past about my two twin friends, Ronnie and Donnie Harwell, as we grew up together on the Southside of Atlanta. We all were members of Dogwood Hills Baptist Church, a progressive South of God church that actually toyed with the idea of racial equality, that is until the pastor decided to make the bold move of opening the doors of the church to black folks. The Board of Deacons met quickly and secretly, to make our Ph.D. in New Testament a Rhodes Scholar…they said “Hit the road, scholar!” firing his progressive ass. He landed a professor’s job at Mercer straightway, and that is thought to be “on your feet”.

Ron and Don’s father was the editor of the Christian Index, a Southern Baptist weekly publication, that put him in the thick of South of God politics. His name was Jack Harwell and he proved himself faithful as well as politically savvy as he negotiated the raging rapids of the river of the Southern Baptist trend toward fundamentalist literalism. Ron, Don, and I played golf together at the local municipal course just off the Atlanta Airport, and Jack would join us oin occasion. In fact, Jack hosted Billy Graham in playing golf when he was on crusade in Atlanta, but not at a fancy country club but at that municipal course where my high school team played its matches. I tell you all this, of course to drop the name of Billy Graham (I used to do a pretty good impression of him at fraternity gatherings: “I just love it when young people come to me and ask: Billy…what’s it all about?” I also did Jim Bakker, Pat Robertson, and my personal favorite, Ernest Angely). God’s little joke or retribution was that “Rev” became my nickname at the fraternity and that I wound up in the clergy. That’s what I call exponential payback. Instant karma, baby…and it is a bitch as my brother says.

But back to Donnie. Donnie found himself working at a 8-track tape recording “studio” in a shopping center called Washington Plaza. The A&P store was the main presence, being the place where my family conveniently shopped for groceries. The tape studio was just next door, having previously been a slot car race track back in the sixties. Now, this tape studio had an interesting owner, Mike Thevis, a rumored, later convicted underworld figure in Atlanta. The front of the store housed pirated tapes of popular records, which may have been illegal in and of themselves. But in the back, pornography tapes were reproduced and sold as well. Donnie was the innocent “front” man who handled the public with his lilting winsome way while various minions worked in the back. I’m telling you all this to make the point that God sometimes works in mysterious ways.

One day, Donnie handed me an 8-track tape that came from Thevis’ shop. It was comprised of the greatest hits, at the time, of Neil Diamond. I would load it into the tape player in the dashboard of my Pontiac Firebird Formula 400, midnight blue and ready to roll. My friends, Ricky Heath and Doug Dunn, had identical cars but in other colors, silver and black. Needless to say, we were of the opinion that we were much hell, all three Delta Airlines brats with non-rev flight privileges. Sweet.

That particular summer, I was smack dab in a time of liminality, in transition from high school to beginning college. The Firebird was in many ways my refuge, and the music was always on, pumped up to 11. My car would take me through the summer and in the Fall, on to the Northside of Atlanta to Emory University.

At the time, I was feeling torn between my South of God grounding in Holy Scripture and my own proclivity toward science and looking for evidence as to the nature of reality. The church had come up short on the race issue two years earlier, leaving me with an after-taste of hypocrisy that would linger. Adding to my crisis of faith, a number of my senior classmates would die in the year after graduation, leaving me with deep questions about God’s goodness and even God’s existence. How do you make sense of suffering if God is supposedly “good”?

My boyhood friend, Danny Hall, had preceded me at Emory and came back warning me about the professors who would challenge my faith. He gave me a book published by Campus Crusade for Christ, authored by Josh McDowell, entitled Evidence That Demands A Verdict. It could not have been better timed as it was a work of apologetics that offered a reasonable presentation as to why the Christian faith was true. I devoured it. In my Episcopal tribe’s language, I read, marked,, learned, and inwardly digested the words of Josh. Oddly, Josh actually came to have dinner and speak at my Sigma Chi fraternity house a few years later when I was the president. It is an understatement to suggest that it was awkward, but I tried to extend my native Southern hospitality in spite of my discomfort.

But as I was stewing in my doubt, trying to arm myself for the coming academic attack on what faith I had left, that 8-track tape provided the background music for my summer. Neil Diamond’s own existential wrestling emerged in his lyrics, oozing with themes of being in the world, making sense of life, straining for answers to my Billy Graham question, “What’s it all about?”.

Specifically, the Diamond lyrics provided images that gave leverage points for my thinking. “Solitary Man” framed some of my quest for identity. Who the hell was I? How do I emerge from my hometown matrix, retaining a connection with family, and yet making my own way, forging my own identity?

“I Am I Said” was my existential struggle set to music. Neil’s struggle with his Jewish background seemed to emerge in many of his songs that voiced a nod to his sense of the spiritual dimension of life such as “Holly Holy” and “Soolamon”.

He could be playful with his faith thoughts such as in the rocking “Thank The Lord For The Night Time”. He faithfully played with the option of finding a faith in the song he wrote for the Monkees, “I’m a Believer”. He could cut through the religious theatrics of which I was well aware and bring it home to its essence, as in “Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show” with a picture drawn of a hot August night at a tent revival. He gets to his spiritual point as Brother Love reminds us that we have “two good hands”, exhorting us to both reach out one hand to God, as well as the other hand to our sister and brother in need., a covenantal ontology if I have ever seen one. I had been to some of those Gospel meetings with my grandfather in West Georgia and knew something of that milieu. I must admit that it is soul-satisfying for me to use the word “milieu” in reference to West Georgia.

Finally, Neil nails my struggle with an acute sense of finitude, with my friends dying, in his poetic images of lament “Done Too Soon”. I was surprised to find that a lot of people have never heard this song. It is well-produced, with trombones and trumpets blasting as Diamond offers a litany of names in a kind of Jewish precursor to rap, to be followed by a soulful solo guitar, enhanced by magnificent strings, as he offers his philosophical exclamation point as to the nature of life. Here are the lyrics:

Jesus Christ, Fanny Brice, Wolfie Mozart and Humphrey Bogart, And Genghis Khan, and on to H. G. Wells

Ho Chi Minh, Gunga Din, Henry Luce and John Wilkes Booth, And Alexanders King and Graham Bell

Rama Krishna, Mama Whistler, Patrice Lumumba and Russ Columbo, Karl and Chico Marx, Albert Camus

E.A. Poe, Henri Rousseau, Sholom Aleichem and Carol Chessman, Alan Fried and Buster Keaton too

And each one there, has one thing shared… They have sweated beneath the same sun,…Looked up in wonder at the same moon… and wept when it was all done… for being done too soon, for being done too soon.

Let me recommend going to Youtube and finding this song, specifically the version with a pictorial representation of the names mentioned. It will be worth the effort, I promise.

I think that Neil was involved in a spiritual wrestling match with his Hebrew background and his own experiene as a human being in a time of rapid change. He answered with his music.

I had the same wrestling match going on inside of me with my South of God struggle, with the Vietnam war and the draft playing in the background. My answer would come with a circuitous route of chasing this alluring mystery of God and my own spiritual song of service and justice.

As I said in the beginning., Neil’s lyrics engaged me, pressed me, encouraged me, chided me as I made my way through that tough stretch of transition. He provided a musical link between my suburban daze of home and the familiar as I tried to make my way into the heady and turbulent world of college, in a critical time of vocational discernmet. I playfully joke about that chapter title in my life story of a time of choosing: Doctor, Lawyer, Tribal Chief? And for that lyrical and musical playground, I am most grateful. It was a good summer. Thank you, Donnie, and thank you, Neil.

I always seemed to have a hard time with Easter.

As a boy, it was about Easter baskets with bunnies, egg hunts, a new suit, going with my family to a bombastic presentation at church, with trumpets and timpanies. It was a show. But as I got older and began to question just what happened on that Easter morning in Jerusalem, my budding scientific mind began to dispute the cheery notion of Happy Easter.

It reached its apex when I was engaged in an argument with a fellow seminarian late one night. After wrestling with one another over the story of Easter, I admitted that I did not believe in the resurrection. My compadre, a fellow South of God tribe member, was shocked and visably disturbed by my self-revelation. He told me that if I did not believe in the bodily resurrection of Jesus, that I was not a Christian, and that I certainly could not be a minister. It was a tough night for me, with my fledgling faith, and our tenuous collegial relationship.

By the way, this is the same guy that I would get into regular arguments/discussions about the Bible, theology, and ethics, not to mention politics. He would often wind up closing our encounter by famously proclaiming, “That’s okay Galloway. You just keep believing your way, and I will believe God’s!”. It was a theological imperialism that I could laugh at but would trouble me because I knew he was not kidding.

After this fateful discussion, I made a trip to the Trappist monastery in Conyers, about an hour east of Atlanta. There I had a monk that I talked to regularly. He had helped me to learn to pray in a more contemplative style, that of the meditative Centering Prayer. Even though I was not aware of the term, he had been functioning as my spiritual director, listening to my honest reflection on my questions, my spiritual experiences, my wonderings, and my doubts. It made sense to me to talk to him about my recent conversation. It felt safe to be transparent as to my thoughts and feelings. So, I did.

Fortunately, he had a wonderful sense of humor. He roared when I told him of my friend’s cocky response, and added that there were a few monks at the monastery who had a similar attitude. He reassured me that the questions I was having were normal and part of the discernment process of discovering a faith that is your own. You can not simply “inherit” the faith of your parents but have to “work out your own sense of God” so that your faith informs how you live. You want to live authentically and be true to your deepest self. I’ll always remember this: he said that God is big enough to handle your doubts and questions. What a gift of grace that was for a young man caught in the vortex of a seemingly endless relativism.

After telling him of my belief in the teachings of Jesus, particularly the concept of the covenant, of loving your neighbor and loving God as the central commitment to faith, I confessed my problem of accepting the idea of a bodily resurrection. Rather than arguing with me, he simply offered his take on what happened at Easter.

It went something like this. After the disciples had come to Jerusalem for the feast of the Passover, with high hopes that Jesus was indeed the Messiah, They were hoping that Jesus would bring in a new day for the Hebrew people, freed from the Roman’s oppression. But things didn’t go the way that they had planned. Jesus was arrested at night in the Garden of Gethsemane as he was praying. Jesus, poignantly while praying, asked if this cup of suffering and death could possibly pass him by. And yet, he trusted God and offered himself in faith. “Not my will, but thy will.”

And we know the rest of the story. He was taken before Pilate, was tried and condemned, sentenced to death on a cross. Jesus was beaten and crucified, dying there on the cross.

Jesus’ disciples fled, scared to death that they too would be arrested and killed. Fear took over their spirit, where before they had been animated by hope. Peter stands in for them all, as not only fleeing the scene, but denying Jesus, even protesting to those who were trying to link him to the condemned man that he, Peter, did not know him. These disciples were driven by self-preservation, and according to the tradition, went to hide in the upper room where Jesus had gathered them the night before to share in the fellowship of the table.

Tradition says that on Sunday morning, Jesus was resurrected, appearing to the disciples in that same room, and appearing to the women who fearlessly kept vigil by the tomb where his body had been placed. There are several accounts of other appearances in the Gospels, notably for me, his presence on the road to Emmaus, as Jesus is recognized in the breaking of the bread.

My monk admitted that he did not know how that resurrection took place. At the time of our conversation, there had been a lot of excitement around the Shroud of Turin, the burial cloth that seemed to show the image of Jesus, burned into the cloth. My monk smiled at that.

His evidence of resurrection was the transformation that occurred in the disciples. As they had fearfully fled the cross on Friday, by Sunday they had changed. On that Easter Sunday morning, they were bold in their proclamation that Jesus had indeed risen, that death could not contain his spirit, that he was alive among them. My monk saw that change as evidence that Christ had risen, even in the midst of fear and doubt. The creative power that Jesus had pointed to in his teachings and in his life, came to animate this gathering of disciples as they formed what would become the living community of faith, even in the face of persecution and martyrdom.

That made sense to me then, and still does now. I have told this experience of the surprise of finding my Easter faith to every congregation I have served.

As you come to this Easter, what hopes and fears do you bring with you? What wonderings and wonder fill your heart on Easter morning in this Springtime of new life? What sense of awe echoes in your soul? What surprise does Easter have for you this year? Blessings.

We are quickly approaching Holy Week, my favorite time of the year. It is a week in which we are invited to follow the steps of Jesus from his triumphant entry into Jerusalem that eventually leads to the ignominious death on a cross, being handed over as a heretic by religious authorities and executed as a subversive by the government. Not exactly a narrative from the superheroes’ anthology.

When I became an Episcopalian, I fell in love with this week because it was participatory. Rather than just learning the facts of the Bible or having the orthodoxy of one’s belief checked for heretical ticks, one is invited to participate in the Divine Drama as it occurred in the past, but it is re-presented in these liturgical actions in the “now moment”. One can become a part of the drama, not just with your head and cognitive processing, but can bring your heart along for the ride, to feel and sense the deep fluctuations of emotions in the joyful hope of restoration, the warmth of community, the bitterness of betrayal, the struggle of doubt, the sting of death, and the pain of abandonment. Holy Week has it all, even before IMAX was invented.

Before I rehearse the events of Holy Week, a tip of the beretta must go to one Spanish nun, Egeria. I discovered Egeria while I was doing research with Marion Hatchett one summer on the Holy Mountain of Sewanee. Egeria’s Travels is the record of her travels in the late 4th century, notably her description of the week of liturgical rites in Jerusalem on the week prior to Easter, as pilgrims made their way to that city to “walk where Jesus walked”, to recount the events leading up to the great feast of Easter. Thanks to the recovery of her journal, we have a description of what it was like to participate in the community of the faithful who gathered in Jerusalem to retrace the journey of Jesus. Egeria’s description is full of details that warm the hearts of liturgical beasts like me. I hear from one of my coachees that the volume costs $50.00 these days, which may seem high to beach fiction readers, but it’s a bargain to enter into that rare world of antiquity. As my pastor, Estill “Pistol Pete” Jones used to say, “If you have your shirt, yet don’t have this book….sell your shirt!”.

Liturgical scholars used Egeria’s accounts and other documents to recover the richness and vibrancy of the early church in recapturing the dynamism of the Holy Week liturgy. It begins with Palm Sunday, also called Passion Sunday. Palm Sunday is coming up this Sunday, so find yourself a place that celebrates it in style. It marks the triumphant entry of Jesus and his followers into the holy city of Jerusalem. It is marked by hope, that this may be the Messiah, long-awaited, prophetically pointed to, who would deliver the Hebrew people from the Roman occupation. If you have difficulty imagining the underlying energy, think back a few years ago following the George Floyd killing and Ahmaud Arbery’s murder, with communities erupting with Black Lives Matter demonstrations. It was similar back in Jesus’ holy week, except you would have to amp it up a few levels. Hebrew Lives Matter! could have been the chant. It was empowering to the participants, fueled by both hope and anger; scary as hell to the Romans.

And so the Church recounts this triumphant entry by lining up the local worshippers, generally outside of the worship space, walking in procession, singing a familiar hymn, All Glory, Laud, and Honor, as they process, waving palm branches, into the church building to begin this Holy Week. It is still one of my central memories of entering the Episcopal Church, holding my palm branch, walking onto Peachtree Street, in front of St. Luke’s in downtown Atlanta on an early Spring morning. I was hooked.

So, it’s an upbeat beginning but it takes a sharp left turn. The joy of hope in the entrance turns quickly to the pathos of what Jesus was facing. At the reading of scripture, jarringly the Passion Narrative is read, with Jesus’ trial, condemnation, and execution read from the Gospel text. It has always seemed abrupt, badly timed to me, until I realized the intent, the purpose of injecting the Passion into this moment of revelry. And the reason is simple: you must go through the Cross in order to get to Easter. The liturgical architects knew that many of the faithful would not make it through the rigors of Holy Week, not attend Good Friday where the Cross and Jesus’ death are rubbed in one’s face, so the failsafe position was to tack on the Passion at the end of Palm Sunday’s liturgy. It’s a practical solution, with good intention, but not ideal in my liturgical heart.., the cart before the horse if you will.

It is effective, nonetheless. I encourage you to find a parish with a Palm Sunday liturgy. The mood swing will be palpable. I have produced them in gorgeous Spring mornings, glorious and resplendent in dogwood blossoms, and I have led the liturgy in howling wind, snow and ice. It’s a crap shoot if you are doing it outside, but it’s worth the gamble.

With Palm Sunday. Holy Week is off and running. Clergy are engulfed in planning, writing sermons, rechecking who is doing what. My strategy was to have my planning and writing done the week before, but we all know the fate of well-laid plans.

In Holy Week, many parishes will offer daily prayers in the morning or evening, to provide a space and time for their members to gather intentionally. In the Episcopal Church, the lessons read and prayers offered are appropriate to the day of the week in Holy Week, following Jesus’ actions in his final week. Since Covid, many parishes have gone online with these daily prayer services. Namely, Canterbury has done so in England, as does Christ Church, Frederica on St. Simons Island here in coastal Georgia. I take advantage of both those connections often, and am grateful for the convenience and thoughtfulness.

The next major liturgy is on Thursday, known as Maundy Thursday. “Maundy” refers to the Greek word, “mandare”, to command. It marks Jesus’ last gathering with his disciples. His commandment is to love. Love is such a wistful thing, tending toward romantic ideations of literally “falling into it”. On this day, the deeper meaning is honored as it is COMMANDED by Jesus of those who would follow his Way of being in the world, ordered if you will, for it is an action that sometimes goes against our apparent, felt self-interest. Jesus insists that we must love even our enemies. I haven’t seen a Valentine’s card with that sentiment expressed. Jesus is talking about serious business, this love thing, and it could cost you your life.

Maundy Thursday is a powerful liturgy/experience as one listens in on the intimate exchange of Jesus with his closest circle, his students, his disciples. Imagine for sixty seconds: just what was Jesus thinking? He had intentionally decided to go to Jerusalem at the high feast time of the Passover. He intuited, saw, realized that this might not turn out well as he confronted both the religious and governing authorities. If you think Jesus had a “playbook” or a plot synopsis in his back pocket, you are doing violence to Jesus’ humanity as coming to Jerusalem was a risk, fraught with danger.

So here he is, planning his last night, his last class, his final encounter with the persons he has been training, teaching. A disciples’ wrap party, if you will. So Jesus offers two actions to align his team: foot washing and a common meal.

Washing feet was an everyday thing in this dusty environment, but the trick was to show how the true disciple of Jesus must be the servant who washes, not the one served. So Jesus kneels humbly to wash the feet of his disciples, taking on the role of the servant. What an intimate moment of teaching/training as he embodies the posture of those who wish to follow him. How odd that the Church has relegated this act to the back of the storehouse of ritual, pulling it out of the closet once a year… maybe. How different our history might have been if we had done this weekly as well as communion, a proper balance of community and service. Wishful thinking on my part.

Gathering at table with bread and wine, with a blessing acknowledging our reliance on God’s presence was an everyday thing as well. But this time, Jesus transforms the ordinary into a promise of presence whenever the faithful gather, that he will be there among them. That is soon to be experienced after his death as the disciples are on the road to Emmaus. “Surely we knew him in the breaking of the bread” is recorded. And it still happens today when the faithful gather with intent. Keep in mind that on this night, Jesus knew what he was doing, gifting his followers with a way forward, even when he was no longer physically present. It’s a powerful liturgy and not to be missed, usually occurring on Thursday evening.

Good Friday is a somber day with the focus on Jesus’ death. Scripture is read, rehearsing the events of those hours of Jesus on the Cross. Some churches will do meditations on the last words of Jesus from the Cross. My preaching professor, who introduced me to Howard Thurman, Dr. Joe Roberts of Ebenezer Baptist Church, was imported annually to my home Episcopal parish to do the honors of reflecting on these words. It became legendary, and the church house was packed. Some churches, especially Roman Catholic parishes, will bring out a corpus cross (a cross with the body of Christ on it), allowing the faithful to reverently approach and kiss the feet of Jesus, a practice that was witnessed by Egeria. Still, others keep it simple, quiet, reflective, allowing the event to speak for itself. Communion is offered from the reserve sacrament, having been consecrated the night before. This service is normally held at noon, though many parishes offer an evening liturgy for those who must work.

This all leads to the Easter Vigil. Some parishes offer it after sundown on Saturday. That is the way I first experienced its mystical power of light overcoming darkness. Others offer it at sunrise, capturing the cosmic presence of the fresh dawn light. And some sleep in.

Wherever I have served as priest, I urged people to come on Saturday evening to experience the best of what liturgy offers the faithful, a way to participate in this holy hope of life’s victory over death. It is the real Easter experience. People who make the effort to show up for the Easter Vigil generally make it their preferred way of celebrating this central mystery of faith for the rest of their lives.

You will have to check schedules to see when this is available in your area, and at what church. Last year, I was at the Trappist Monastery of the Holy Spirit in Conyers, Georgia, the place where I first participated in the Vigil. This past year, Easter Vigil was at 4:30 AM Sunday morning which made for an interesting liturgy as we literally began in darkness, and slowly watched the sun awaken. However you are able to get to a Vigil, wherever, whenever…I commend it highly. You will thank me.

So that’s Holy Week, a designed experience to lead you into an awareness of this Christ moment and offer you an opportunity to participate in the deepest meaning of this Mystery of faith. My sense is that people are hungry for an experience of the presence of the Holy, longing to find hope in a time of despair. The Church has a unique platform to address this spiritual need, rather than pouring facts and ideas into people’s heads. They look for an experience that will help them in their suffering. They want to touch, feel, and taste this hope that is offered in these liturgies.

I pray that you find your own way to make this real for yourself rather than being a passive observer. Like Egeria, make your pilgrimage to this holy space and time, and get ready to be moved, touched, even transformed. Blessings.

When I was in Texas, a close friend and I had one of those strange moments of inspiration…or craziness, depending on your perspective. We decided to go to the desert…for a spell, as my Texan grandmother would say. A “spell”…an indeterminate time.

Retrospectively, it was genius, or more precisely, it was inspired. We were going to make a retreat during Lent. Not just any ol’ retreat but a retreat to the desert, the wilderness. We would travel to South Texas to a retreat center that provided a setting for a strictly silent retreat, each person having their own hermitage in which to spend their time. It was called Lebh Shomea.

My companion was a dear friend, Ted Walters, who had been my golf partner on every Thursday since God created the great game. We would leave Tyler, Texas, Ted’s hometown and my sojourner’s squatting place for a decade, away from Georgia. We traveled south almost to the Texas Gulf coast to a tiny town named Sarita, 21 miles from Kingsville, Texas, or 70 miles south from Corpus Christi. It is the definition of the “boonies”. I loved it.

Lebh Shomea, Hebrew for a “listening heart” is a retreat center on the former Kenedy Ranch. The ranch once was made up of 400,000 acres…that’s big, even for Texas. It was given to the Order of Mary Immaculate and operated as a unique setting for spiritual retreats. When Ted and I first went, we were each provided a hermitage that was located a good distance from the center, requiring a decent walk through the wilderness from the retreat center to one’s abode. Each hermitage had a simple bedroom, bath, a chapel, as well as an outdoor porch. We were provided meals at the old Kenedy mansion, the Casa Grande, with silence as the rule. The only time one was allowed to speak was at the Daily Eucharist in which there was a five-minute time to respond to one’s neighbor about the topic of the sermon. Otherwise, silence. Did I mention that there was nothing but silence. SILENCE. The obvious point was that your time at Lebh Shomea was to allow you the rare opportunity to listen to your heart. They were serious about this stuff.

The setting was that of a Texas wilderness, raw, with brush and desert type plants…no East Texas azaleas. The grounds had high preserve fencing so that the wildlife would remain. Sitting on my porch, I would regularly see deer ambing past, wild turkeys walking in trios, all kinds of birds, a few wild boars, one particularly slinky bobcat would came by at the same time each day with wild hair vertically protruding from his ears. And there were other exotic animals, just for the sport of observing them… a virtual wildlife safari. I could have easily imagined that I was on a plain in Africa. And I must confess that the porch dominated my time and attention. The sense of connection with God’s Creation was overwhelming, which was what I was needing.

I have been in a lot of retreat settings in my time, but never with this strict observance of silence. In the Trappist world, there is the Grand Silence that begins following the evening’s final prayer service, Compline, which lasts through the night until Lauds a 4 AM. But the silence at Lebh Shomea is relentless. It first felt like an imposition, but as the week moved on, and I adjusted, it felt like a liberation from all the mindless chatter that I participated in during my daily life. To be silent meant that I was able to listen to what was going on in my heart.

As a part of my Franciscan rule, I now try to take one day a month in silence and experience it as a benefit to my sense of presence in the world. I find that it prompts me to notice sounds that would have passed over me. I am able to pause, to center in the present moment that my busyness tends to disrupt. My single days of silence are not as rich as an extended hermitic retreat like at Lebh Shomea, but I take what I can. The community of silence, committed to by all there, added a dimension of support that was empowering me.

If the season of Lent is about anything, it is about intentionality, discipline. One is invited to enter into the time with some values in mind. Often, people approach Lent as “giving something up” in your life. I remember when I first came into the Episcopal Church, many good Episcopalians mentioned that they were giving up alcohol, chocolates, or, God help me, coffee, as I take a sip.

The women in the Cathedral Bookstore, particularly Jane and Kathy, could offer some pretty funny “things to give up for Lent”. One wag stated that she was “giving up ‘giving up’.” Indeed. No wonder I spent so much time down in that bookstore. Thankfully, it injected some wry sense of humor into my serious pursuit of holiness that I found in that holy hole known as the Bookstore next to the horseshoe drive. It was there where I entered the Cathedral for the first time, my entrance gate in the Anglican ethos. That first day, it was where I purchased my first book there, a copy of the classic, The Shape of the Liturgy, by Dom Gregory Dix. Just last night, I read the high praise for that very volume by one Thomas J. J. Altizer in his memoir. Living the Death of God. He claimed it to be the best description of prayer in all Christendom. It was another odd instance of synchronicity in my Lent this year. I’ll take it and run!

The Forty Days of Lent can give one an excuse to address issues that plague your spirit habitually. It can be setting a time aside for spiritual reading as I have with the work of Howard Thurman that I have rediscovered. It can be the trying on of a new way of meditating like the lectio divina of Psalm 139 that Thurman guided me to. It can be adhering to a “rule” of following a daily prayer ritual, to introduce or strengthen a structure and discipline of prayers such as in the Daily Office. These are intentional acts of approaching this rich time of preparing one’s soul for Holy Week and the Great Feast of Easter which is approaching quickly. I hope you have found the time of Lent fruitful for your spirit regardless to the path you took through this season.

If you have not played with silence during this current Lenten season, let me encourage you to try it on: start with twenty minutes of listening to your heart. Or, maybe try it for an hour, just sitting and attending to what you might hear. Doesn’t have to be a week like at Lebh Shomea, where the listening heart gets a real workout. Just abide in this rare thing know as silence…if just for a spell. Taste the gift of silence. Blessings.

At the end of life, it’s natural to reflect on how you have spent the precious time you have had here on Earth. “The Boss”, Bruce Springsteen wrote a song about it called Glory Days. Erik Erikson, a psychoanalyst, clinically referred to it as a life review. My whole South of God writing might be just that: an exercise in review, looking in that rear-view mirror, and observing where I have been.

Lent prompts one not just to live in the past, but to become acutely aware of the present, examining where you are in the “now moment”, as well as planning for the future. This three-dimensional awareness of time can form a scaffolding for your care-full inspection of what is going on in your soul. Two key components of such an engagement are a healthy curiosity to wonder, and a concomitant measure of courage to look beneath the surface. Lent provides the “prompt to pause” to do this work of reflection which hopefully yields the fruit of self-awareness.

If you have been reading South of God recently, you know that I have been excited to rediscover the spiritual writings of Howard Thurman, who provided the soulful depth of the modern civil rights movement. His book, Jesus and the Disinherited is one of the texts for the Episcopal program of racial reconciliation, Sacred Ground, and is on the shelf next to my Bible, the Synoptic Gospels, and the Book of Common Prayer. Looking just now, that Thurman volume looks more worn than that of the other three, which says something. I am currently rereading that classic during Lent as well as daily diving into the spirituality classic, Meditations of the Heart.

There is a quote from Thurman that has grabbed me as of late. Here it is:

“Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive and go for that, because what the world needs is more people who have come alive.”

This quotation comes not from one of Thurman’s many books or chapel talks, but rather from a conversation he had with Gil Bailie, an author who wrote the book, Violence Unveiled. Bailie was questioning Thurman as to what the world needed most at this time. Thurman responded that one needs to begin with one’s own passion and purpose, and then bring that to the world. This exchange reminded me of my own extended conversation with Thurman which I mentioned in a previous article. Thurman focused on the interior depth, the fire within that burns. Discern that as the starting point, and then discover how to bring it to the world. For me, Thurman prescribed using Psalm 139 to get at that center where the fire abides.

My reflection today on Thurman’s words reminds me of another spiritual giant, Joseph Campbell, who taught for many years at Sarah Lawrence College. Meeting regularly as an academic advisor to students, Campbell, like Thurman, listened carefully to what brings light to the student’s eyes, what quickens their spirit. And when that was clarified for the student, Campbell would advise them with three simple words, “Follow your bliss.”. That simple phrase became the touchstone for Bill Moyers’ epic exploration of Joseph Campbell’s massive work on religion and mythology, The Power of Myth. Follow your bliss.

While I was chasing down Thurman’s “coming alive”, and Campbell’s “follow your bliss”, I came across my academic mentor, James Fowler’s reflection on the nature of faith. Fowler broke onto the theological scene, claiming that faith is a universal human phenomenon. Everyone has faithm that is, a way of seeing the lay of the land of existence. It may include a divine presence, but it may be without such a reference. Faith is a trust in the way the world is. Fowler’s singular contribution was the this faith formation follows cognitive structures much like Piaget discerned in thinking and Kohlberg identified in moral reasoning, His book, Stages of Faith, has informed Christian educators over the past forty years,

One day, Fowler was on his way, driving to make a presentation in the early days of his ground-breaking work on the psychology of faith when he found himself in an existential confrontation with the meaning of faith in his own life. He pulled off the road and wrote down these pressing questions:

What are you spending and being spent for? What commands and receives your best time, your best energy? What causes, dreams, goals, or institutions are you pouring your life out for?
As you live your life, what power or powers do you fear or dread? What power or powers do you rely on and trust?
To what or whom are you committed in life? In death?
With whom or what group do you trust your most sacred and private hopes for your life and for the lives of those you love?
What are those most sacred hopes, those most compelling goals and purposes in your life?

Jim decided to begin his first book, Stages of Faith, with these pregnant questions. As we did the research on these stages of faith, we asked these questions and more to the persons that we interviewed from a variety of faith traditions. For me, it was so enlightening to be able to listen to these various stories of faith and attend to how people had found meaning in their lives.

I had the gift of working with Jim for three years at the Candler School of Theology as my academic adviser, and three more years working as his assistant at the Center for Faith Development at Emory. Questions of vocation and calling were always in play, working with seminary students who were struggling to discern their call; offering retreats under the banner of the “Pilgrimage Project” for ministers laboring in the field, mid-career, wondering if they could continue; as well as grappling with my path forward. It was a rich time for learning, deepening, and stretching.

Jim and I had similar backgrounds, paths, concerns, and values, and yet we wound up with vocations that were similar and yet distinct, I think back and smile at some of the difficult talks we had about how one might live one’s life faithfully. We both had some political inclinations yelling up from our basements, as well as voices calling us up higher from folks perched on our balconies, namely Carlyle Marney. Some of those conversations became heated as we both cared deeply about the subject, but there was always an honesty about confronting the reality and depth of the questions. He and I parted ways as I felt pulled to ministry in the context of the parish and in the Episcopal Church. It was a tense, painful separation as we had multidimensional bonds and personal expectations. But, what a gift it was for me to be in the presence of a giant.

I still remember the joy of bringing him out to my parish in Tyler, Texas and allowing him to see the work I was doing as a parish priest. I had invited him to come and present the Brookshire Lectures on faith development. In it, he surprisingly broke form of studied academic lecture and told of his experience of being with his wife as she prepared for a mastectomy. This Harvard-trained professor showed a side of himself I had never seen before, with a transparency to his emotions and pain. He had grown, he had developed his own self and soul which was a gift for me to experience. Later, we went to County Line Barbecue to break bread, share some brisket, and a few longneck beers to celebrate our friendship and shared vocation. That Texas dive became a sacred space of communion and reconciliation.

These days with the priests and ministers that I coach, I have my own set of questions that have given me some guidance personally and have provided some benchmarks for others. Sometimes, I am talking with clergy who are already in place in a parish or in a particular ministry. Many times, they are in the process of discerning if they should stay where they are or perhaps begin to think about a move or transition. I have to say that much of my insight comes from the nine-month vocational discernment process that I went through in the Episcopal Diocese of Atlanta led wisely by Caroline Westerhoff.

I begin by asking the person to identify the particular and peculiar constellation of gifts that they bring to the dance. I press them to be explicit about those gifts and try to surface talents that may be hidden. The liabilities, blind spots, and internal saboteurs are also needing to be explored as well in terms of discerning the course forward.

Secondly, what are the fruits of those gifts in the world in which one lives, specifically the congregation or community that you are serving? Again, I press for specifics and not just a general “feel”. What is the evidence of effectiveness in one’s current ministry? What proof is there that this is productive for the community?

And finally, I ask a question that seems to be surprising to most, but gets at both Thurman’s “alive” and Campbell’s “bliss”: Does your work bring you a deep sense of joy? When I am aligned with what I was created to do, I get a deep-down sense of joy in my heart. It’s not the passing, transitory happiness that I feel when I am having a good time or enjoying a particular pastime. It is more of a satisfaction that seems to fill my soul when I am doing what I am meant to do. I love it when that happens in my own life, and I yearn for it for others that I was walking with.

However you frame it, “coming alive”, or “following your bliss”, it’s about being or becoming aware of what makes your soul sing. Lent can be a time of self-examination where part of the work you do is clarifying what brings you a sense of joy. Lent is not just about repentence about your shortcomings anb failures. It can be a time of alignment for the soul that has become “out of balance”. I hope that you will use part of your Lenten pause to ponder that question. What makes your soul sing?

When I was beginning my work at the Cathedral of St. Philip in Atlanta, I was gifted by the imposition of a structure, something that was new to me. It came in the form of the Daily Office, that is, prayers to start the day, and prayers at the end of the day.

The Anglican version of the monastic life was transposed by Thomas Cramner into two times of daily prayer as opposed to the eight offices in a Benedictine monastery. For people who were not cloistered within the confines of a monastery, how might they find and observe a structure that kept them focused? Cramner came up with a natural rhythm: the Daily Office, Morning Prayer and Evening Prayer.

I consider myself so blessed to have landed at the Cathedral at such a formative time in my ministry. We had Morning Prayer every morning at 8:30 and Evening Prayer at 5:30. It provided a structure that would become my pattern of life throughout my career as a priest. With all the urgency, interruptions, and vicissitudes of life, having some structure was amazingly helpful to a young priest.

I got into a habit of going to a local gym around 6:30 in the morning to play racketball for 45 minutes, work out in the weight room for thirty, steam room for 15, shower and get to the Cathedral by 8:15. I could get to Mikell Chapel by 8:30 to join the Bishop and my fellow Canons for Morning Prayer. That was followed by coffee in the kitchen as we checked in for the day. I can’t imagine a better way for me to get centered in my new life at the Cathedral. It felt monastic to me in many ways, a true rule of life. To be there, often with my bishop, and my colleagues was a profound way to get my day off to a good start. “Coffee hour” is a liturgical “hour’ in the Episcopal tribe.

Having a community certainly helps. Since leaving the Cathedral, my Daily Office is more of a self-discipline, and more difficult to maintain. Over the last three years, it has become a part of my “rule” as a Franciscan, praying the office, reading the lections from scripture, and praying my intercessory prayers for fellow Franciscans and for those on my heart. My original rhythm of Morning and Evening Prayer, instilled at the Cathedral, with the aid of a supportive community, laid a foundation for me now that I am solitary. I am grateful and often think back to those days in Mikell Chapel with Bishop Judson Child, Herb Beadle, David Chamberlain, Bruce Shortell, and Lloyd Wells. I miss that community.

As we move into Lent, a time of self-reflection and amendment of life, let me ask you to pause and reflect on how you begin your day? Do you have certain rituals that form the start of your daily work, activities that form a structure that supports you? For me, it has changed as I have more freedom in my life with less demanding tiime commitments. I am able to extend my centering/meditation time, lingering in silence. When I was on the island, I would often spend long periods of time on my deck which was adjacent to the marshes of Glynn, listening to and watching the wildlife, mainly the birds. I felt as if it was a gift given to me as I moved into a more intentional focus on our Creation and our stewardship of it. Now, living by the Chattahoochee River, I watch and listen to the geese and ducks make their morning flights across my sky. I have three particular trees that I feel a connection to, one a magnolia, one a towering conifer that reaches skyward, and one wispy tree that poses in front of my window. It’s the wispy one that I am currently in conversation with as it is bereft of leaves, but in winter, waiting. I identify with her.

In my quiet time, I am aware of my connection to the Creation in a way that is fresh and new, even though I have always enjoyed being in nature, bathing if you will in the majesty of the mountain, enjoying the waves of the sea, resting in the lull of the lake. But now, things feel different. Less active, more connective.

My mornings are sacred as I set aside, dedicate time for journaling, which is intended for no one other than myself. I can write thoughts and feelings that I do not have to censor or worry about reaction, just free-form thoughts as they bubble to the surface. What a gift that is, no longer concerned about the political ramifications of what I might say, who I might piss off. After years of “positioning” for acceptance and consensus, how liberating it is to allow a free flow of thoughts. I laughingly remember a phrase that was applied to my grandmother, the salty Glennie Mae McBrayer, who was said to “call a spade a bloody hoe”. It got her into trouble here and there, and I know that I received a gene or two from that Scots line of McBrayer. I am sure that many former parishioners and friends may be surprised to even think that I paused to consider the effects of my remarks, but God knows, I did. Journaling releases me from the plague of an audience that I must play to. I commend journaling to those of you who have not tried it or left it behind in your past. It can be liberating…and revealing.

I also have adopted a discipline of writing every day. At times, this may be an article on coaching, the work that I am doing with young priests and ministers mostly. Or perhaps my time is directed at leadership or organizational development. Truth is, this is my best time, the time that I end feeling satisfied, as if I am doing what my Creator intended for me to do. It is always a gift, even in tough times when it is a struggle to dig out the words from my heart. It is a strange joy as I am in process, searching for words, phrases, images, but a deep sense of satisfaction when I complete. like any physical activity of desire and completion. On the other hand, there are those days when the wrongly attributed quote of Hemingway feels true about the work of writing: you just sit down at your typewriter, open a vein, and bleed. As my patron saint, St. Ringo truly said, “It don’t come easy.”.

As you are moving through your time of Lent, ask yourself as to the rituals that help to order your life.

Are there certain ways that you bring to your day?

Are there discernable patterns in the course of the day that you may or may not be aware of as you go through it?

Are there typical ways that you close your day, ending it in certain patterns?

These structures provide the lines on the field of play on which we live, move, and have our being. It’s worth the venture, every so often, to examine how we are living this one precious life as the ordering provides a structure that is, in fact, a container in the chaotic thing known as existence.

Growing up, there were five days of school, measured, meeted out, demanded. Free time limited. Saturday was free form but Sunday always meant Church. That was my structure growing up. It was outwardly imposed, socially accepted.

Nowdays, there is little imposition. It’s mostly all chosen, which can be good or bad.

My question for this week in Lent: how are you choosing to structure your life?

Rediscovering Thurman at the beginning of what promises to be a chaotic year feels somewhat providential, which is saying a lot for one who is reticent to ascribe such causal connections.

But here it is. Last week, I wrote of a Thurman conference that restored me to the deep waters of Howard Thurman’s soul. Our time together was initiated by the reading of one of my favorite Thurman pieces, How Good to Center Down, a reflection included in his book, Meditations of the Heart. This prompted (providentially?) me to pick up my copy, which led me (providentially?) to choose it as my Lenten reading.

I began my Lent a little early by spending five days focussed on that one meditation, finding it so rich, so ripe with insights into the spiritual life that I have aspired to, and striven for almost fifty years. “Centering” has been the main motif of my prayer life as my tendency to get distracted and scattered has been a constant issue.

For me, it began in college with a “quick trip” to the Transcendental Meditation center, seeking to find focus for my academic studies. Honestly, I was looking for the proverbial “edge” in the competitive environment that I found myself in with people who had been better prepared for that rigor. And the TM mantra, made cool by the Beatles, promoted by the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, was effective, measured by the rise in my GPA, the gold standard.

About a year later, a trip to visit the Trappist monastery just outside of Atlanta bumped me into a renewed method of prayer called Centering Prayer. Like TM, it used a prayer phrase, a mantra, to regulate your breathing so that you could focus on the presence of God. The monks and the writings of Trappist monks in Spencer, Massachusetts, were appealing as it baptized my practice of meditation, connecting it with God.

I wrote last week of my tranfigurative encounter with Thurman which added another dimension to the mix. Dr. Thurman prescribed the use of an ancient method, unknown to me at the time, lectio divina. It simply, and profoundly entails the reading of scripture in a meditative mode, reading the text slowly, as Bernard of Clairvaux admonishes, “masticating” or chewing on the words rather than rushing through the text. As I said last week, Thurman offered up Psalm 139 for my “mastication” which seemed prescient to me. It has continued to be my “go-to” in times of press and stress. Trappist monks use lectio in their choir chant, going through all 150 Psalms in a month’s time.

However one chooses to “center” one’s Self is a good thing. For me, it usually means a time of being in the presence of God, as outside distractions are put aside. One of the things I learned from Tibetan Buddhism was our tendency to have a “monkey mind” with the image of monkeys jumping from tree to tree. That sounded just about right when I was learning another “centering” style of meditation at the Drepung Loseling Center here in Atlanta. What is needed is a method, a practical means to stop the monkeys, to settle down, to be present in the Eternal Now. Easier said than done, yelled the monkey as he jumped from the palm tree.

Thurman’s book, Meditation of the Heart, is chocked full of helpful images and practical advice around this notion of centering. I commend the book, available through Amazon (one day delivery…tell ’em Dave sent you). The article I began with, How Good To Center Down!, describes the situation/predicament well:

“How good it is to center down! To sit quietly and see one’s self pass by! The streets of our minds seethe with endless traffic. Our spirits resound with clashings, with noisy silences, While something deep within hungers and thirsts for the still moment and the resting lull.”

Now, Thurman’s not using the monkey-tree image, but if you live in Atlanta, the traffic metaphor works pretty well. You get a sense of where we are in our lives, with information highway overload, demands on our energy and time, and the very lack of a “center”. He goes on:

“With full intensity we seek, ere the quiet passes, a fresh sense of order in our living; A direction, a strong sure purpose that will structure our confusion and bring meaning to our chaos.”

This is what Centering does. It allows us to pause. To simply be in the moment, without distraction. “To abide”, quoting the Dude.

In this particular essay, Thurman uses the centering process to set up a moment of self-reflection in the service of self-awareness. This press seemed particularly appropriate to the season of Lent as we examine ourselves, not to beat ourselves up, but to commit to amend and improve our way of being in the world as faithful stewards of our lives and the Creation that we share.

Let me give you a taste of how Thurman procedes here:

“We look at ourselves in this waiting moment- the kinds of people we are. The questions persist: what are we doing with our lives?- What are the motives that are ordering our days? What is the end of our doings? Where are we trying to go? Where do we put the emphasis and where are our values focused? For what end do we make sacrifices? Where is my treasure and what do I love most in life? What do I hate most in life and to what am I true?”

No simple survey question that beats against us in social media, like “who you gonna vote for?” and “will you contribute?”. These are existential questions that get to the heart of the matter. For me, this is not an everyday exercise, as my centering is more of a quieting, calming of my spirit. But in seasons such as this, Lent, or in evaluative moments at the end or beginning of a quarter, these questions deserve answers whether you have the brass to face them or not. Who are you? What are you intending to do with your precious life? What values are driving you? How are you doing? What changes, amendments, do you need to make in your life?

Thurman concludes with a sense of hope:

“Over and over the questions beat in upon the waiting moment. As we listen, floating up through all the jangling echoes of our turbulence, there is a sound of another kind-deeper note which only the stillness of the heart makes clear. It moves directly to the core of our being. Our questions are answered. Our spirits refreshed, and we move back into the traffic of our daily round, with the peace of the Eternal in our step. How good it is to center down.”

Transcendental Meditation (copyright TM), Centering Prayer, lectio divina, or Tibetan lovingkindness, they all are trying to get us to CENTER our Self in an awareness of this moment that we are gifted with, sharing with others. I hope you are finding this season of Lent as an oasis, or perhaps a desert, as you continue on in your journey in this life. I would value hearing if these questions of Thurman have prompted your reflection as they have me.

Blessings on your journey.+

The quotations here are from Howard Thurman’s, Meditations of the Heart, p. 12-13.